The other boys cheered his bravado, and Relfas added, “I’m going to clip the ears off the first tribesman I kill and wear them home as trophies.”
“I want one of those woods-women,” said Janar, also befogged with drink. “Simpler than courtin’ the girls back home!”
They all laughed, but Tol didn’t feel merry. When his comrades staggered out to find more wine, he remained in the tent. By the light of a tallow candle, he prepared his armor, honed his saber and spearheads, and continued to brood over the morrow.
Chapter 8
The Harrowing
Wanthred’s Firebrand horde departed at first light the next morning, after taking leave of Marshal Odovar. Shortly thereafter, the remaining two hordes from Juramona left the imperial encampment. They arranged themselves in a formation suitable for moving through enemy country. Out front in a wide arc were lightly armed skirmishers, provided with horns of different sizes, each of which sounded a distinctive note. A hundred paces back was the main body of the Eagles and the Panthers, in a compact mass moving ahead at a steady walk. Next came the Rooks, three hundred shilder ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen. Although without rank, the shield-bearers acknowledged several chiefs of their own: Relfas, by his noble blood a leader; Janar, blond, genial and popular, and widely rumored to be Lord Odovar’s natural son; and Tol, who owed his station to his strength and fighting skills.
Trailing them was the baggage train, forty-four carts and wagons drawn by oxen. These bore everything needed to keep the hordes in the field, from a rolling blacksmith’s shop to kegs of Lord Odovar’s favorite beer. Marching alongside the baggage wagons were two columns of foot soldiers, four hundred thirty men commanded by Durazen the One-Eyed. Last of all was the rear guard, two hundred veteran warriors from Juramona chosen for their steadiness and courage. It was their job to reinforce a successful attack, or form a last defense in case of disaster. Command of the rear guard was given to Egrin’s old comrade Manzo.
Hordes ate on the move, falling back in groups of ten to the provision wagons. Cooks handed them skewers of meat, roasted over pots of coals. Two skewers per man was the daily ration, plus a stone-hard biscuit, all washed down with a jack of salat-beer cut with water.
On their first campaign, the shilder were excited, keyed up for a fight. They laughed too much and talked too loudly. The summer heat, wide clear blue sky, and verdant open meadowland made for a general feeling of being on a grand adventure.
Lord Odovar ignored the boys’ high spirits until the army had forded the Wilder River. Now within a few leagues of their goal, the marshal sent a rider back to silence the noisy shilder.
“Why so stern? No one knows we’re coming!” Relfas complained, as the warning messenger galloped back to the front.
“Think again. We’re probably being watched even now,” Tol replied, eyeing the dark smudge on the horizon that was the edge of the Great Green.
“How do you know?” Janar asked.
“It’s what I would do. Even if the foresters don’t expect an invasion, they must have sentinels to watch for travelers and merchant caravans to plunder.”
His reasoning sobered the boys. Their chatter steadily declined as they rode inexorably closer.
Midmorning of the next day, the Juramona hordes ascended a rise and beheld their destination at last.
Zivilyn’s Carpet was an enormous open meadow, a full league across, bordered by the forest on three sides. Summer’s heat had turned the hip-high grass brown, but the meadow was thick with flowers. Enormous drifts of white daisies, blue cornflowers, and yellow running roses covered the field, tossing their heads in the mild breeze. Even more startling were the islands of tall sunflowers sprouting from the turf. They grew in thick clusters as high as a horse’s back, and their flat brown faces were as wide as trenchers. A steady mix of bees, butterflies, and other insects crisscrossed the meadow, feasting on the abundant pollen. Beyond the lake of flowers, the distant forest was a dark green wall, as solid and featureless as a cliff face.
Before noon, Odovar halted his men. The baggage carts formed a square near the eastern end of the vast meadow. Footmen fell to erecting a palisade around the square, and Odovar called in his scouts and skirmishers. Sweating hard, the marshal nonetheless sounded more like his old self when he addressed his lieutenants.
“We will enter the woods at once,” he told them. “It’s important we strike the tribes without delay, before they can unite. I will lead the Panther horde personally. Egrin, you’ll remain here till the sun is at your back; then you will enter and follow on the track we make.”
Again Tol was surprised. Divide the hordes? Wouldn’t it be better to keep them together? He studied Egrin’s face, but couldn’t tell if the warden was frowning from the sun in his eyes or from his disapproval of the plan.
“What about the rear guard and the shilder?” asked Manzo.
“Form your men with Egrin,” said Lord Odovar. “The boys will remain here, with the baggage train.”
Many of the shilder openly groaned when they heard that, and Odovar barked, “Those are my orders! Do any of you infants care to dispute with me?”
More temperately, Egrin said, “You boys will be our reserve. If we get into a serious fight, you’ll be called to join in.”
“There won’t be much fighting,” the marshal snorted. “I expect the savages will run for the mountains as soon as they hear us coming.”
The other warriors hailed this bold boast, but Egrin seemed unmoved. As the hordes sorted themselves out, he took Tol aside.
“Note this well,” he said quietly, ignoring the tumult around them. He mashed a common jackberry, a bitter and unpalatable fruit, in the hollow of his left hand. After smearing the juice on his ring, he pressed the ring against the back of Tol’s hand. The emblem of Egrin’s house-a crescent moon-remained, printed in dark berry juice.
“If I send for you, the messenger will have this mark,” the warden said. “Otherwise, ignore any call you get to join me. The enemy we fight are not honorable warriors. They’re plunderers and scavengers, and may resort to all manner of tricks. If anyone tries to summon you to my aid without this mark, kill them, or beat them to get the truth. Is that clear?”
Tol nodded gravely. Egrin clasped arms with him, not like master and student, but man to man. The youth was poignantly reminded of the day he’d left his father’s farm to join the ranks of the shilder, when his father had gripped his arm just that way.
Odovar and Pagas led the Panther horde into the Great Green. It took quite a while for the thousand mounted men to penetrate the green wall of bushes and saplings. For a long time after the last Panther disappeared from sight, Tol could hear them crashing through the undergrowth.
Egrin sat on the ground by his horse, reins loosely tied around his wrist, regarding the forest with a silent frown. Tol asked if he was troubled by the coming expedition, but the warden denied it. The dense woodland, he said, reminded him of his youth. He offered no further comment, but found a rose in the trampled grass and idly plucked its saffron petals.
Time passed. The sun reached its zenith. Most of the soldiers made a quick meal of cold meat and hard biscuit. Egrin remained where he was, sitting by Old Acorn, as the sun began to move westward. At last, he stood and mounted the roan. Without a spoken order or horn call, the men of the Eagle horde did likewise, sorting themselves into squadrons of twenty. Egrin placed a peaked iron helmet on his head, adjusting the chin strap to a comfortable fit. He wrapped the reins around his left hand, thumped Old Acorn’s flanks, and started toward the trees. The Eagles followed him without fanfare or fuss.
Watching from a wagon, Relfas sniffed. “Our warden is no gallant, is he? He lacks Lord Odovar’s style.”
“He’s a great warrior,” Tol objected.
Janar waved the chunk of biscuit he held, saying, “Fighting is one thing, leadership another. I agree with Relfas-Egrin has no sense of glory!”
They often talked this way, and Tol never
could understand their thinking. Surely the measure of a warrior was how well he fought, not how well he dressed or bellowed commands? To his mind, Egrin was worth a dozen Odovars. The marshal was brave enough, but impatient, even rash. In a battle between equal hordes, one under Egrin and one under Odovar, Tol would ride with Egrin, no question.
The Eagles were swallowed by the forest in less time and with much less noise than the Panthers. Once they were gone, a pall fell over Zivilyn’s Carpet. The sun declined further and the brightness of the day was swallowed by deep shadows. The bustle and noise that had accompanied the full camp gave way to the nervous quiet of those remaining. To many of the youths it seemed as though they had been taken to the edge of the world and abandoned.
Tol left his shilder comrades to hunt up Narren and Crake. He found the former off-duty and playing knucklebones with other footmen behind the healer’s wagon. Tol joined the gaming for a time, lost a small amount, and quit.
“Seen Crake?” he asked, as Narren’s fellows raked in their winnings.
“Probably napping in the wine cart.” Narren often accused others of vices he wanted to commit himself.
In fact Crake was awake, though comfortably ensconced with his feet propped up on the driver’s box of his wagon. The young flutist was enlarging the holes in his instrument with a slim, sharp blade. He hailed Tol’s arrival.
“A new flute?” Tol said.
“Naw, an old one. They get soft, you know, from spit and breath blowing through them,” Crake explained. “The wood swells, changing the pitch, so I have to open up the holes to keep things in tune.”
Tol climbed in beside his friend. He pulled off his helmet, running his ringers through his sweat-sleeked hair and glorying in the fresh air. For a moment he envied Crake’s pleasant life, and told him so.
“It isn’t bad,” the youth replied. He dipped a hand below the driver’s box and brought out a half-full wineskin, offering it to Tol. It was politely declined, and Crake set it aside. “But there’s a lot of ugly work in tavern life, too.”
Tol prompted him to go on.
“Dealing with drunks is the worst. How would you like to wrestle nightly with besotted soldiers who think they’re the emperor’s champion swordsman? If you tap one with a persuader, then you have to drag his arse outside, and nothing weighs more than a lifeless body. But leave the fellow on his feet, and he’ll either take a swing at you, or heave his supper on your shoes.” Crake blew a random note on the flute. “Some life, eh?”
Tol gazed into the woods. The low, westerly sun washed the Great Green with bloody light, yet the brilliance seemed to penetrate only a few steps into the forest.
“I wonder what it’s like?” he said. “Battle, I mean.”
“Loud, I imagine. Sweaty. And scary.”
“Do you suppose they’re fighting now?”
Crake laid the flute on his chest, and gave his friend a thoughtful look. “You really do wish you were with them, don’t you?”
“Better than waiting here, doing nothing.”
“That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Crake said, and smiled, a quick flash of teeth in the gathering dusk. “We’re not doing nothing. I’m tuning my flute, and you’re daydreaming.”
He pulled the stopper of the wineskin and let it dangle on its cord. The potent aroma of red wine filled the air between them. Crake took a drink, then passed the skin to Tol.
“And now you’re drinking,” he said wryly. “That’s not nothing, either.”
Tol thought he was too excited to sleep that night, hut nodded off on his bedroll before the campfire had burned down to embers. Night passed peacefully until a firm hand prodded him awake.;
“Eh, what is it? Who are you pokin’, Janar, you dolt-”
“Wake up, boy. There’s trouble.” The voice belonged not to Janar, but Felryn. The healer looked worried.
Tol bolted upright. “What trouble?”
Felryn hushed him and said softly, “Not here. In the woods.”
He beckoned the puzzled youth to follow. They went to Felryn’s wagon, a large, canvas-roofed vehicle drawn by six oxen. Inside, the air was hot and heavy, laced with musky incense. At the far end of the wagon was a small altar to Mishas inscribed with arcane symbols of the wizard’s craft. A thick candle burned on one side, and several pewter talismans lay beside the steadily burning light. Tol and Felryn squeezed in, and the healer closed the flap.
“First, I must anoint you,” the healer muttered. “So as not to offend the gods.”
He took tiny brass vial and shook out a few drops of clear oil on his fingertips. He dabbed the oil first on Tol’s forehead, then his chin, and finally both cheeks. As the liquid warmed, Tol detected a faint, spicy aroma.
“I was consecrating talismans for the protection of Lord Odovar and his warlords,” Felryn said. “Nothing was going well. I broke my stylus, and the sacred candle went out twice…” He frowned. In the candlelit gloom, his form seemed to merge with the shadows. His strong face resembled a mask carved out of smooth, dark wood.
“Bad omens, but I put them down to nerves. I was nearly finished with the dedication of these two medals to Corij when there was a flash of fire, and this happened.” He held up the two medallions: they were fused together, edge to edge.
“What does it mean?” Tol asked, head swimming a little from the overpowering aroma of incense.
Felryn closed his long fingers around the ruined medals.
“The air here is heavy with magic. There are powerful spells being cast, not far away-spells against our people-and, I fear, much danger for Lord Odovar.”
“Who’s casting these spells? Foresters?”
“No, not the local shamans; their power is drawn from the realm of Zivilyn. There are stronger forces stirring.” When Tol looked alarmed, Felryn stared at him silently for a few seconds, rubbing the fused talismans between his hands. “I will see what I can see,” he said at last.
He pulled the silver Mishas medallion from beneath the neck of his robe. Clenching it in one hand and the fused Corij talismans in the other, he closed his eyes, lowering his chin to his chest. Tol held his breath, waiting to see what would transpire.
The silence deepened. One by one the night sounds from outside-the chirrup of crickets, the muted call of an owl, even the whisper of wind in the long grass-all ceased. Soon, Tol realized he could no longer hear even his own breathing. The lack of sound was absolute, pressing against his ears like a thick blanket. He could feel himself gasping for air, his mouth wide, but still heard nothing.
Felryn began to tremble. When at last he spoke, although his voice sounded flat and toneless, Tol felt a huge surge of relief. Any sound was welcome after the dreadful, smothering silence.
“Great forces are at work. They do not originate in the forest-though that’s where they’re working,” Felryn intoned. “Lord Odovar faces death-a trap, an ambush!” His eyes sprang open, wide and worried. “And so does Egrin!”
Tol’s hands clenched into fists. He wanted to shout questions, demand more information, but he feared distracting the healer from his vision. So he waited.
After a pause, Felryn closed his eyes again, and continued: “Six leagues from here is a stream, bent like a horseshoe, in a deep ravine. A large tree lies across it, like a bridge. The marshal cannot advance on horseback across the ravine. He dismounts and starts over the log on foot. The log breaks when he’s halfway across; it has been sawn through, save for the last bit on top. Odovar falls into the stream. It’s only chest-deep, but with his bad leg he can’t get out.”
Eyes still shut, Felryn turned his head, as though looking at something in the scene he described.
“Arrows fly-the foresters are all around.” Felryn’s voice lost its toneless quality, and he exclaimed, “Men struggle to reach Lord Odovar, but all who try are slain! The enemy is in the trees… they have good bows. The marshal is hit! He brandishes his sword and calls for a charge. But the mounted warriors have no room to maneuver among t
he closely growing trees. They are felled from all sides by arrows and thrown spears. Egrin-”
The healer grimaced, moving his head left and right, searching, then reported, “I cannot see. Something impedes my sight.”
Tears oozed from under Felryn’s rightly clenched eyelids-red droplets-blood, not water. He opened his eyes and inhaled deeply. Immediately the oppressive silence ended, and the familiar nighttime sounds flooded back into Tol’s grateful ears.
“I will rouse Durazen and seek his counsel!” he said, gripping Felryn’s arm. “He’s the senior warrior in camp.”
The healer slumped wearily against the side of the wagon, but he assured Tol he was well. Tol left him and ran to the center of the square, shouting Durazen’s name. Soldiers and shilder sat up all around, but he didn’t see the commander of the footmen.
Narren suddenly came running, wearing only a breech-clout and clutching a blanket around his shoulders. He had a war dagger in his free hand.
“Tol! Come quick!” he panted. “It’s Durazen!”
Tol raced through the roused camp. In the far corner, Narren stopped and stood over an unmoving figure on a bedroll. For a moment Tol thought Durazen must be dead or drunk, but Narren kicked the blanket aside to reveal not the commander’s body, but a bundle of grass and vines, cunningly lashed together to resemble a man.
“Torches!” Tol yelled. “Search the camp! Find Durazen, or anyone who doesn’t belong here!”
By now the whole camp was in an uproar. Brands blazed; shilder and foot soldiers searched the camp, even turning out the civilian wagons. Durazen could not be found.
No one slept for the rest of the night. At dawn, the nervous shilder and foot soldiers greeted the sunrise with relief, though there — was still no sign of their missing commander. And with Durazen gone, there was no clear leader among the footmen or shilder.
Tol, mounted on Smoke, addressed the assembled warriors and civilians. He told them of Felryn’s vision of an ambush.
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